Authors: Jonah Paine
Ten minutes of Celeste sitting in his passenger seat had been enough to fill his car with the delicate traces of her perfume. Sam wondered how long the aroma would last. He wanted it to last, for a few days at least. It was nice, having her her in his car, even if it was for only a few minutes.
"Here we are," he said unnecessarily. Celeste hadn't made a move to get out of the car yet. In the half-light he could see the half-smile she was giving him, as she waited to see what he would do.
Then it came to him in a flash. "Right," he said, and undid his own seatbelt to step out of the car. He walked around to the passenger side and held the door open for her. Celeste smiled, inclining her head to accept the gesture, and took his hand to step out to the curb.
They walked together to the front door. "Thank you for a very pleasant evening, Sam," Celeste said as she turned to him on the front step. What had started as coffee had turned into hours of conversation about anything and everything—the city, how the police department worked with the press, the things Sam had seen in his years on the force, what had brought Celeste to town. Sam opened up to her like he hadn't in years, not since Missy died. Celeste appeared fascinated by all of it, and he drank in her attention and her regard.
"I had a good time," he offered, knowing that wasn't the half of it. Then, not knowing what he was planning, he leaned in toward her.
It had had started as a hug, or at least that's what he would say if he was dragged in for questioning by the Marriage Cops. Somewhere along he way, though, Celeste matched her movements to his and the hug became a kiss. Their lips rested lightly together, and Sam's entire body came alive with the warmth and the closeness of the woman pressed up against him.
He pulled away, confused and ashamed but also a little disappointed that the kiss had come to an end. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have done that," he mumbled.
"Sam," Celeste started.
"I'm gonna go," he said, and turned back toward his car.
"Sam, it's OK," Celeste called after him.
"No, it's not," Sam said mostly to himself as he climbed into the driver's seat and angrily turned the key.
The air smelled of moisture and rot, and for the thousandth time since she woke up inside her cage, Betsy Patterson turned away from her fears at what might be in the dark.
She didn't know how long she'd been down here. There was no sunrise or sunset to mark the passage of time. When she woke the first time, she cried and screamed and then she prayed for deliverance. She was sure, back then, that God would hear her prayers and she'd soon hear the sounds of someone coming to release her. That prayer had gone unanswered, though, as had the prayers—so many of them—that followed. Still Betsy prayed. She had no choice but to pray. Prayer was hope, and without hope she'd die.
It was black as night in her cage most times, so dark that if she held her hand inches in front of her face she couldn't see her fingers. The dark was comforting in a way, though. The dark meant that she was alone in this place. She hoped to see the light, because light might mean that rescue was coming, but light also brought the bad man.
He came in silence. The first thing Betsy would hear was his breathing. It was deep, and heavy, like she imagined a bear might sound when it crept up on its prey in the woods. She had never seen him clearly. Her imagination built him out into an enormous creature, a monster that barely fit inside the room. When she heard his breathing she shut her eyes tight and tried to hold him out.
"Betsy, little Betsy," he'd whisper. "Are you afraid, little girl?"
Betsy might have screamed or begged, but she knew by now that it was no use. He wasn't here to listen. He was here to make her afraid.
"You should be afraid, Betsy. I sit upstairs and I think about all the things you hold dear. You hair. Your eyes. Your pretty little fingers. I think I might take those things from you, Betsy, one by one. I might take a knife and pop out your eyes, I might take my sharp knife and slice off your fingers. I might cook them in a stew and feed it back to you."
Betsy held her arms tight around her knees as she cried. She rocked back and forth and told herself that he wouldn't do it. No one was that evil. He wouldn't do it. God would stop him and deliver her from this evil.
He chuckled. "Do you wonder why I took you, Betsy? I did it because I wanted to set myself against your god and see who came out on top. What do you think, Betsy? Will your god save you before I kill you? Because he better hurry up, Betsy. It won't be long now. Not long at all."
Betsy cried in the dark and prayed to a God she knew was not listening.
The first time Sam saw Celeste's name on his phone's caller ID, he was sitting in bed next to his wife, waiting with her as she tried to go to sleep. He looked at the face of the phone, thumbed "ignore," and hoped that she wouldn't call again.
The second time Celeste called, he was in a meeting with his boss, explaining why they had made so little progress on the Jasmine Martin case, and why they were still following up on the Jesse Rasmussen lead even though no one had seen or heard from him in months. Sam glanced at his phone and put it back in his pocket, unanswered.
The third time Celeste called, Sam was at his desk. He held the phone in his hand and thought about all the reasons why he shouldn't answer—or better yet, why he should answer to thank her for her call and ask her to please stop calling. For starters, there was the fact that he was a married man. Things hadn't been good with Patty for a very long time, but he was still married and Sam thought of himself as a person who would did not cheat. Second, there was his job, and the very clear requirement that he not fraternize with reporters. Celeste hadn't asked for inside information on his investigation, but Sam's superiors wouldn't care if they were seen together. Sam needed to protect two things, his investigation and his professional reputation, and he was putting both at risk every minute that he spent with Celeste. He was still thinking about his responsibilities when the phone stopped ringing.
The fourth time Celeste called, Sam had run out of reasons. "Hello," he said, feeling like a man who had taken one step off the edge of a cliff.
There was a pause on the other end. "Wow,' Celeste finally said. "I was so used to getting your voicemail that I've forgotten what to do when you answer the phone."
"What can I do for you, Celeste?"
"Sam, I just want to talk. I want to make sure that things aren't weird between us."
"Why would they be weird?"
She chuckled. "Now you're just lying to me. You know why."
Sam bowed his head. "Yes. I know," he admitted. "And I'm sorry, I never should have..."
"Don't apologize," she broke in. "I kissed you, too. Whatever happened, we were both responsible."
"Well, I'm still sorry. If nothing else, I owe my wife an apology."
"And have you?" Celeste asked.
"Have I what?"
Have you apologized?"
He paused, looking for an escape, but found only the truth. "No," he admitted. "I haven't apologized to her."
"Good," she said. "It would have hurt her and done no good. Sometimes the truth makes things worse."
Sam sighed. "Again, what can I do for you, Celeste?"
"You can talk to me. Tonight. At my place."
Sam shook his head. "I can't, Celeste."
"You can. I promise, nothing will happen between us. In fact, that's why I want to see you tonight, so that we can talk—and only talk—and get back to where we were before the kiss."
Sam felt at a loss. He didn't know what to say or do. "Why do you care, Celeste?"
"In all the time I've been here, Sam, I feel like you're the only friend I've made. I don't want to lose that because of one stupid kiss."
He paused, searching for a way out.
"Sam, please," Celeste said. "Just for a bit. I'm lonely, Sam, and I need a friend."
Sam closed his eyes in resignation. "I'll be there in 30 minutes," he said.
Celeste's apartment looked like Ikea chic. The furniture was simple and functional, but Sam could tell how carefully it had been selected to fit with the rest of the room.
It was a simple space, without much decoration on the wall and with a simple rug over hardwood floors. It could not have been more different from Sam's house, and he liked it.
Celeste was in the kitchen, pouring them wine that Sam already knew was probably better-quality stuff than he had ever tasted. She had greeted him at the door with a happy smile and a hug. Sam liked the idea of Celeste being his friend. He didn't have enough friends, and she was nothing if not charming. Still, when she hugged him he felt every inch of her body against his, and if they were going to be friends he'd have to do something about that.
He joined her on the couch. She handed him a glass of wine. "To us," she said, holding her glass up in a toast.
"To friends," he said, clicking his glass against hers.
She sipped her wine. "Anything new with your case?" she asked.
"Nothing I can tell you," he said with a smile. He brought his wine glass to his lips and allowed the wine to touch his lips, but he didn't take a sip. Some day he'd explain to Celeste why he couldn't drink, but not today.
"You're no fun," Celeste pouted. "If you're not going to talk about your work, what should we talk about?"
"How about you?" Sam asked.
She sipped at the wine again, eyeing him warily over the top of her glass. "What would you like to know?" she asked.
"For starters, why don't you have friends? You've been here long enough to settle in, get to know some people."
She smiled, looking away. Sam could see her weighing her words, deciding what to say next. "I don't ... I don't trust easily, Sam," she said at last. "And without trust, you don't connect. Not really."
Sam looked at her closely. "Why is that?"
She shrugged. "High school was hard on me. I was a loner. And I've been a bit of a loner ever since."
"I have a hard time believing that."
"Why?" she asked.
He looked her up and down. "Because you're you. Celeste, you're gorgeous. You're smart. You're charming. People must be drawn to you."
She chuckled. "Well, maybe not everyone sees me like you do."
"I don't believe that, either."
She shrugged. "It is what it is. So now it's your turn to answer a tough question."
Sam braced himself. "Shoot."
"What's going on with your marriage?"
He winced. "Wow. You don't beat around the bush, do you?"
"Would that be better? I want to know, I'll find out eventually, so either you can tell me a little bit at a time or you can just answer the question right now."
Sam considered her, deciding what to do. He knew he didn't need to tell Celeste the truth, but he wanted to trust her. "We're going through some hard times. Some really hard times. It's been hard on both of us, but I Patty is really struggling."
"So why aren't you with her now?"
Sam knew he probably should have been hurt by the question, but there was a lot that couldn't touch him anymore. He was like a burn victim who healed by replacing pain with numbness. "I don't make it better for Patty. I think, sometimes, that I make it worse. When she sees me she remembers what our lives used to be like. So she drinks and tries to forget, for one night at least. And when she wakes up the next morning, she starts drinking again."
"That's so sad," Celeste said, reaching out to take his hand in hers. "You must feel so alone."
It was a simple gesture, but something in Sam leapt when she did it, and he laced his fingers with hers. Part of him wanted to cry, to weep and wail and moan, while another part wanted to be done with the crying and the mourning and see what life might still have for him. That was the part that reached out to Celeste, leaned into her, and took her mouth in a kiss.
Soon Sam was lost in the sensation of kissing this incredible woman, kissing this woman who was far too young and far too beautiful to be kissing him back, moaning against him, leading him into the bedroom. In a state of wonder he unbuttoned her blouse and felt the softness of her skin. In a state of unbelief he collapsed with her on the bed and compared the softness of her sheets to the softness of her bare skin. In a moment of pure exultation he exploded within her and rested, panting and sweaty, in her arms.
The lights were out and the only sound was Celeste's soft breathing from where she lay, warm and real, along Sam's side. Propped up with a pillow, he lay with a hand on her hip and stared out the window.
What he had done was wrong. Every part of him knew that to be true. Things were bad with Patty, and they'd been bad for a very long time, but in Sam's book there was no circumstance that made cheating OK. If he was a better man, either he'd end it with Patty and get on with his life, or he'd make things better between them no matter the cost. He was not a better man, though. He was merely himself, no better than that, and in the end there was no point in contemplating what the Sam Who Was Not might or might not do. The Sam Who Was lay next to Celeste and felt good about it. He reveled in her soft femininity, in her youth and passion, and in her inexplicable, flattering interest in him.
Celeste was beautiful, that was undeniable. That she was also sexy as hell was something that Sam knew better than most. Those things were good, they were wonderful in fact, but the greatest thing was that she was alive. For years he and Patty had been locked in a tomb together, and they'd been in the dark so long that he had forgotten what light and heat felt like. Celeste had reminded him. She had awakened in him a hunger for those things that he knew would never be extinguished.
It couldn't go on forever, of course. Sam trailed his fingers through Celeste's hair and thought about how short their time together might be. He would have to end it with Patty somehow. He would have to find some way to extract himself from her that would not send her spiraling further down into alcohol and depression. But he also knew that Celeste would tire of him, in time. She found him new and intriguing now, but Sam expected that to last about as long as the bright-colored coating on the candy in a child's mouth. Soon she would see through to who he was on the inside, and then she'd be gone.